


whatever here that's left of me (is yours)

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Emotional Sex, Frottage, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Identity Porn, M/M, Mild Blood, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Rough Sex, Threats, really really mild though I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 07:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25346833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: Geralt fucks a doppler who looks like Jaskier.But things aren't as simple as they seem...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 234





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cw: - consent issues due to threats and identity misconceptions - very minor amount of blood from a hand wound in pt 2
> 
> thanks to [zade](archiveofourown.org/users/zade) for being the most lovely beta.

Geralt’s been traveling alone for over a year when he sees Jaskier. It’s just a glimpse—a flash of color disappearing around a corner, the sound of a familiar laugh—but it’s enough to make Geralt’s stomach lurch, to break through the thick wall of uncaring he’s built up. It’s enough to make Geralt follow. 

He follows around the corner and into a tavern, dimly lit with sparse flickering candles, likely intended to disguise the array of stains across the wood floor. Geralt can still see them, of course, he can still see everything, regardless of the ambient light. He sweeps his eyes across the tavern until he finds him, sitting at a full table in a corner, surrounded by smiling people, drinking people, laughing people. 

Geralt wants to walk over, but he hesitates. He can still feel the anger on his lips when he yelled at Jaskier, can still feel the bile he bit back when Jaskier didn’t argue, can still feel the empty space that’s been healing slowly within him. Too slowly, apparently. 

The worst part is, he’s been almost searching for Jaskier for all of this time, secretly hoping they’d run into each other. He’s half convinced that Jaskier would forgive him, would come back to him in a moment, and he’s half convinced that the bard would spit at him as he passed, like everyone else. But still, Geralt wants to find him, to see him, just in case; he just can’t actually admit that he wants to, and he certainly can’t be obvious enough about it for anyone else to know. 

So he sits at another table, watching Jaskier, hoping he’s blending in well enough to not draw attention, to not split his focus. He drinks slowly, milking the reward of his few coins. He watches Jaskier sing, and flirt, and drink and…something feels off. 

Maybe it’s the way that Jaskier is sitting, somehow too self-conscious, too aware of his own surroundings, too careful. Maybe it’s the way that he’s drinking, like he can actually hold his liquor, instead of being a horrible light-weight. Maybe it’s the way he meets Geralt’s eyes, once, fleetingly, smirking before looking away quickly. It’s so at odds with the pit in Geralt’s stomach, the clench in his chest, that it catches his suspicions. 

By the time the tavern is emptying out, Geralt is certain it’s not really Jaskier. It’s a good imitation, a damn good one, but it’s not quite right, and he’s probably the only one who would know that. Gods, that knowledge should not make him so irrationally angry. 

He follows Jaskier out of the tavern, watches him bid farewell to some of the people he’d been sitting with, watches him wave off the advances of a comely young woman in a very tight dress, as if that’s something Jaskier would actually do. Jaskier walks down the street and Geralt follows him, taking the same shortcuts, blind to where he’s going, until he turns into an alley and stops short. 

The alley is a dead end, dark, and Jaskier is leaning against the wall of a building, looking at him expectantly. 

“Hello there, Geralt.”

Geralt’s blood boils, and he surges forward, trapping likely-not-Jaskier against the wall, his hand coming up to wrap threateningly around his neck. “You’re not Jaskier.”

He’s almost entirely certain that he’s right. Even though it smells like Jaskier, even though it looks like Jaskier, even though the taut line of its body is exactly the way Geralt remembers Jaskier’s being when they’d stood this close before, even though it’s wearing an expression Geralt knows well. Jaskier exhales shakily, and Geralt almost feels his resolve shatter. 

“Who are you?” Geralt growls, tightening his grip despite the rush of fear that he might be wrong.

Then Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Fine. Witcher, you are no fun at all.”

Geralt frowns, more surprised at the admission than at the information it contained. “You’re a doppler - why shouldn’t I just kill you?”

The doppler holds his gaze. Gods, his eyes are almost a perfect imitation of Jaskier’s. “I’m not hurting anyone.”

“You’ve stolen my friend’s identity.”  _ It’s hurting me _ , he doesn’t add. No need to give away more than he needs to. 

“He hasn’t been here for weeks,” the doppler replies, “and I’ve not committed crimes or anything. Let me be.”

“Change to someone else,” Geralt growls. He can feel the doppler swallow against his palm, the rabbit pulse of a human beating in its neck. It’s such a perfect imitation, and it’s been so long since he’s been this close to Jaskier, since he’s touched skin that felt like Jaskier’s, since he’s had Jaskier’s eyes on him. The doppler licks its lips, leaving them glistening, and gods, even that’s a habit of Jaskier’s. 

“I rather like this body,” the doppler shoots back. It brings its hands—Jaskier’s hands, calloused but well-kept—up from its sides and shoves away at Geralt’s stomach and hips suddenly, its knee coming up between Geralt’s legs as a secondary defense. “Oh! It appears, so do you.”

Geralt growls. He’s all too aware of how his body has reacted to the assault, to looking at Jaskier’s wet lips and intense eyes while hands touch him, while a knee slides up his thigh. He’s all too aware of the erection growing in his breeches, of the way his body wants to press against Jaskier’s, of the moan caught in his throat. It’s not unexpected, not entirely—he’s always been teetering on the edge of his attraction to Jaskier, and since they’ve parted, his fantasies have only increased, his time split between thoughts of spoken apologies and thoughts of pressing their bodies together, of showing Jaskier how much he’s been missed. 

But this isn’t Jaskier, not really. The doppler is smirking at Geralt, a look that’s almost Jaskier, but a little too hard. Although, Jaskier wouldn’t be looking at Geralt softly now, would he? The doppler’s knee is still pressing up against Geralt’s clothed erection, and Geralt wants nothing more than to press back against it and…gods, is he really thinking about this? 

Geralt brings his face close to the doppler’s. It was right about one thing—there’s no harm in keeping this shape a while longer if Jaskier’s long gone from this town. “I’ll make you a deal. I won’t kill you, but I’ll need you to do something for me.” Geralt waits for its answer, uncertain what he’ll do if it doesn’t agree, if he’ll be able to just walk away. 

“What did you have in mind?” it asks, and there’s an edge to its voice, a challenge, that sounds good and  _ right  _ in Jaskier’s voice. 

It tips the scale. Geralt surges forward and kisses it, kisses  _ Jaskier.  _ Jaskier’s mouth is warm, and sweet, and lets out a little sound, like ‘oh,’ when Geralt presses his tongue between Jaskier’s lips. Geralt’s blood roils, all of it going straight to his cock. 

The doppler presses Jaskier’s knee harder against Geralt, hands coming up to grip Geralt’s hips, pulling him in. Geralt knows how entirely wrong this is, but he  _ wants _ it, wants to rut against Jaskier’s body, wants to press kisses that speak apologies against every inch of skin, wants to sink his cock into its warmth, even if it’s all just an illusion. 

Geralt leans into the knee, presses his cock against it as Jaskier’s voice moans into his mouth. It’s good, the friction of it, and Geralt doesn’t fight it. He moves his free hand to the doppler’s waist and slowly lower, uncertain what he’ll find, if Jaskier’s likely resentment of him is filtering through into the doppler’s memory. But it’s the rigid line of a hard cock that he does find, and Jaskier’s mouth moans louder as Geralt presses his palm against it. 

Geralt loosens his grip on the doppler’s throat slightly, not enough for it to escape, but enough for Geralt to break their kisses and press his face into the curve of Jaskier’s neck, to lick against his pulse, to scratch lightly with his teeth. Jaskier’s hands grip Geralt’s hips tighter, pulling him in, encouraging his thrusts against Jaskier’s knee as he palms Jaskier’s cock through the fabric of his trousers. 

“Fuck, Geralt.” The sound of Geralt’s name, high and needy in Jaskier’s voice, pushes him past the point of caring about the morals of this and Geralt thrusts his hips harder, his mind blank with want. Jaskier’s hips come up to meet his with a throaty moan, pressing back against Geralt’s hand, and Geralt comes with a growl, spilling into his pants. 

He stills his hand, lets himself lean into Jaskier’s body fully as he comes back to himself. The doppler shifts underneath him, and Geralt decides he’s not quite ready to let it go yet. There’s so much more he wants, so much more he’s imagined doing to Jaskier, and this might be his only opportunity. Geralt pushes past the knot that forms in his throat as he thinks that—the time for mourning is later, now is the time for action. 

“Tell me,” Geralt says, his face very close to Jaskier’s ear, “how closely do you copy the anatomy of your…the body?”

Jaskier’s shaky exhale echoes through Geralt’s entire body. “Our abilities are very exact.”

“Exact enough to—?” Geralt cuts himself off and pulls away just enough to see Jaskier’s face as the doppler answers.

“Yes.” It sounds slightly apprehensive, but Geralt is too far gone to care.

“Good,” Geralt growls, “The terms of our deal are not yet met. Are you staying in a room somewhere?” Jaskier’s head nods. “Take me there.” Geralt loosens his hold on the doppler, letting it move away from the wall and then taking hold of one of its wrists—Jaskier’s wrists—with a silver knife clutched in his other hand, just in case it tries to run. 

The doppler looks uncomfortably at the knife in Geralt’s hand, but it doesn’t try to run. Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s wrist as they walk, and after a moment Jaskier starts singing quietly, and it’s so much like so many nights in so many towns that Geralt wants to scream. It  _ is _ exact, it’s Jaskier—his voice, his inflection, his lyrics, his quick pulse under Geralt’s thumb. He rubs circles into the pulse point absently, filled with regret.

They reach another, smaller inn. The innkeeper, still tending things in the open kitchen, smiles at the doppler, at Jaskier. He must not have been lying when he said he’s been here for a while since the real Jaskier left—he’s clearly known here. 

Geralt doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s wrist, not even when it makes climbing the two flights of stairs awkward. He clutches at it like he should have clutched the real one. 

The room is small, with a bed and a wooden chair and not much else, but Geralt honestly couldn’t care less. That’s not why he’s here. He lets the doppler go and closes and latches the door, locking them in. Geralt takes a deep breath and turns back to the doppler. 

“Take off the clothing,” Geralt says firmly. He pulls the chair in front of the door and sits, watching as the doppler starts to strip the clothing from Jaskier’s body. The details here, too, are exact. There’s the scar across Jaskier’s chest, and the one across his shoulder, souvenirs of attacks Geralt couldn’t adequately save him from, although he knows Jaskier was proud of them; there’s the mess of chest hair, trailing tantalizingly lower; even the cut of his hip bones, the curves of his stomach, are known to Geralt, catalogued at a time when he couldn’t help but memorize them, when he didn’t think he’d really ever have to call upon the memory, when he didn’t think he’d ever be without. 

The doppler Jaskier looks up at Geralt as he pulls off the trousers and smallclothes in one motion, leaving Geralt sitting fully clothed in front of a fully nude Jaskier, his cock curving up obscenely towards his stomach. 

Geralt sucks in a breath. He is by no means a saint, but even a saint wouldn’t have been able to walk away from Jaskier like this. 

He stands up and walks over, shedding his outer layers as he goes, dropping them haphazardly on the floor. He lifts a hand and runs his fingers carefully along Jaskier’s shoulder, following the line of his collarbone, dipping across his chest and down his stomach, touching lightly. Jaskier leans into his touch, and Geralt can hear his breathing getting quicker, his chest heaving with it. 

Geralt shrugs out of his shirt. He runs his other hand along Jaskier’s cheekbones, caressing even though he knows this isn’t real, that the real Jaskier will never know that he touched him like this, like something precious, like he’s wanted to for so long, since before he fucked it all up. Jaskier’s eyes stare back at him, pupils blown out with want, his lips curl into a smile that Geralt knows, even if he’s only seen it directed towards him when Jaskier thought he wasn’t looking. He hadn’t put it together before now, that this was Jaskier’s look of lust. 

Geralt takes a moment to mourn lost chances, stroking his thumb along Jaskier’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean it.”

“Sorry for what?” Jaskier’s mouth asks, and Geralt swallows the intense wave of disappointment, the reminder that this isn’t what he wants it to be, it’s a pale imitation. He still wants it— _ gods _ does he—he just has to choke down the things he wants to say to Jaskier, he has to keep holding those close to his chest. Witchers don’t have feelings, after all. They only have this: power and wanting and self-control. And for one night, he has Jaskier. 

“Sit on the bed,” Geralt says, gruffly. 

Jaskier’s eyebrows raise, but he does as he’s told. Geralt strips off his remaining clothing and moves towards the bed. Jaskier’s eyes track his movements, the scent of lustful anticipation filling the room—Geralt wonders if that’s real or if he’s imagining it. 

Geralt’s hard again, and he runs his hands lazily down his own cock as he steps forward, liking how Jaskier’s eyes widen, how the scent of lust increases. He leans down and kisses Jaskier’s lips again, injecting it with passion, with all the things he wants to say and can’t.

_ I’m sorry,  _ Geralt thinks again. Jaskier’s tongue presses into his mouth and Geralt cups his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck, holding him close as the kiss deepens. 

_ You’d better be, _ he imagines Jaskier replying. 

_ I’ve missed you, gods, I’ve missed you.  _

Jaskier moans as Geralt drops his hand to Jaskier’s cock, touching lightly, getting the feel of it, mapping it with his fingers. 

_ Better show me how much, then _ , says imaginary Jaskier. 

_ I will,  _ Geralt thinks, and drops down to his knees.

Geralt doesn’t have huge amounts of experience sucking cock, but he has enough. He has enough to wring moans from the doppler, to pretend it’s Jaskier’s moans. He wraps his hand around the base of Jaskier’s cock, taking the head into his mouth and running his tongue across it, repeating the motions that make Jaskier’s thighs tremble, that make him moan high and loud. 

Jaskier’s cock is heavy on Geralt’s tongue, the precum leaking out of it slightly salty, and Geralt revels in how real it feels. He’d fantasized many times about just dropping to his knees when they’d had arguments, about making Jaskier cry out instead of talking nonsense—this is almost the same. Jaskier’s hands wind into Geralt’s hair, pulling at it uncertainly as Geralt takes his cock as far into his throat as he can manage. 

That feeling, the tugging at his hair, the sweet pressure-pain-pleasure of it, is so familiar—how many times had Jaskier washed his hair, pulling dirt from it with the same motions. It spurs Geralt on, makes him suck harder, pulling at Jaskier’s hips until he starts to thrust cautiously into his mouth. Jaskier’s fingers pull harder at his hair and Geralt hums around him.

It’s so familiar, and so foreign—Geralt feels like his head is spinning trying to piece all of this together. He pulls off of Jaskier’s cock, looking up at the face he knows so well. 

“Fuck, that’s…you’re good at that,” the doppler says between panting breaths. It’s so easy for Geralt to convince himself that it’s Jaskier, to feel the inner glow that praise from Jaskier secretly brings him, has secretly always brought him. 

_I’ve missed you_ — _I was wrong,_ _I need you with me,_ Geralt thinks. _So show me,_ replies imaginary Jaskier. 

“Turn around, lie on your stomach,” Geralt says gruffly. He watches Jaskier’s tongue swipe across his lips again before he turns around, presenting Geralt with the long expanse of his back, with his ass. Geralt tries to breathe. 

Geralt leans close, pressing his cock against Jaskier’s back, breathing in the smell of Jaskier’s hair, some combination of oils that he could never figure out. “I’m going to fuck you,” he whispers, pausing to suck a bruise onto the back of Jaskier’s neck. And then because he can’t help himself: “Fuck, you look beautiful like this.” Jaskier’s replying laugh is shaky. “Tell me you have oil.”

Jaskier’s hand gestures and Geralt finds it easily in a bag on the floor—the same as what Jaskier must wear in his hair, floral and pretty, like being hit in the face with a memory. Geralt tries to remember how to breathe as he walks back over to Jaskier’s waiting form.

The oil slips easily from the bottle onto Jaskier’s skin, onto Geralt’s waiting fingers. He runs a slick finger along the cleft of Jaskier’s ass, waiting only moments to press it gently into him. Jaskier groans loudly and it cuts to Geralt’s core—he thinks he could come just from listening to that sound. 

Geralt moves his finger, slowly at first and then with more vigor, feeling Jaskier’s body respond to it, pressing back against his finger and forward against the mattress, moans and obscenities pouring from his mouth. Geralt adds a second finger. This is good, this is easier, with Jaskier’s face turned away for a moment, with Geralt able to look at the body he seen so many times without the incongruences of expression that come from the imposter deep inside. He can let himself believe this is Jaskier rutting against the bed, Jaskier’s body swallowing his fingers, Jaskier’s prostate that he rubs gently, Jaskier’s keening cries in response. 

After the addition of a third finger, Jaskier’s back is slick with sweat, and Geralt isn’t sure how much longer he can last, and he’s unwilling to end this encounter without fully fucking Jaskier. He pulls his fingers away and the ensuing whine is seared into Geralt’s memory. 

Geralt lines himself up, pressing the head of his cock against Jaskier’s entrance and pulling Jaskier’s body up against his, wrapping an arm around his chest. 

“Geralt,  _ please _ .” Jaskier’s voice is strained, and it sounds the way Geralt remembers overhearing, the way he’s heard Jaskier through thin walls, through the barely-there screens of whorehouses. It sounds perfect, and gorgeous, and Geralt clings to his last threads of composure. 

“Anything for you, Jaskier.  _ Everything _ for you,” Geralt replies, forgetting to say it only in his head. Jaskier trembles in his arms as Geralt presses slowly into him until their bodies are flush together, his cock deep in the warm heat of Jaskier’s body. 

He stills, drinking in the sensations. It’s good, and because he knows it’s exact, a perfect replica, it’s easy to accept how good it is, how good  _ Jaskier _ feels around him. He moves, just a little, a slight pull and thrust of his hips, and he echoes the moans dripping from Jaskier’s mouth. It’s as near to perfect as Geralt has ever gotten—surrounded by the scent he associates with Jaskier, as he fucks into his perfect form—except for the reality nagging at Geralt’s mind, that Jaskier is gone, that tomorrow this will have been just a dream, that he’ll never get to say the things he wants to, that he’ll never get to press his hands against the real Jaskier, never get to hear him moan. This is a masterfully executed fantasy, and nothing more. 

Geralt snaps his hips, his thrusts getting more powerful, really fucking Jaskier, trying to chase the thoughts from his head. 

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice says, high and needy, breaking with each of Geralt’s thrusts, “I’ve wanted you like this for so long, fuck it’s better than I imagined.” 

It’s a lie, and an unnecessary one, but Geralt lets it wash over him as if it were the truth. What’s the harm, at this point, when it’s too late to undo any of this anyway. Geralt presses Jaskier’s body into the bed, lifting his hips up to deepen the angle of his thrusts. Both of them moan at the change, and Geralt lets himself go, throwing aside his control and fucking Jaskier with abandon. 

_ I’ve wanted you like this for so long— _ it echoes through Geralt’s head.  _ So have I you, _ Geralt thinks,  _ it just took me too long to realize how much. _

He feels his orgasm approaching, building tightly in his gut, and lets his thrusts turn wild and uneven. Geralt wraps his hand under Jaskier, just barely touches his cock, wet and leaking, and Jaskier cries out, spilling onto the bed. Geralt doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, but presses wet kisses against Jaskier’s neck as he snaps his hips for the last few times and comes with a yell, with words of love waiting unspoken behind his lips. 

They lie on the bed, panting, unmoving. Geralt moves first, pulling himself up and out of Jaskier, standing up on uneven legs. The doppler rolls onto its back, smiling up at Geralt. It pulls him down, pressing Jaskier’s lips to his briefly, before Geralt pulls away, almost angrily. 

The room seems like it’s closing in on him. He sees now that the room is dirty, that the bed is old and creaky. The smell of sex hits him in a sickening wave, something about it is off—the shortcoming of something only exact enough to get by, or the reality of it not being Jaskier, not really. Jaskier is long gone from this town, and Geralt is only chasing his ghost.

Geralt doesn’t bother wiping himself off, unwilling to wipe away the familiar scent of Jaskier’s oil, but pulls on his trousers and boots. The doppler is arranging Jaskier’s body on the bed in a way that’s all too successful at alluring. It sends a sharp pain through Geralt’s chest. 

“Satisfied?” the doppler asks. 

Geralt hesitates. He almost wants to say no, to keep this doppler in his company, an imitation of what he really wants, but a good one. He could travel with it, he could fuck it senseless, and he could pretend it was Jaskier every step of the way. It’s appealing, gods is it, but…  _ No _ . 

_ “ _ Would have been better without the lies at the end,” Geralt says gruffly, “I didn’t ask you to pretend.”

A shadow of mirth crosses Jaskier’s face. “Didn’t you?” Geralt growls. “It wasn’t lies,” the doppler says quietly, in almost the same tone Jaskier had taken on the mountain, before Geralt tossed it all away. “I have all of his memories, remember? An exact copy. He wanted you like that, his memories are strewn with it.” Geralt struggles to remember how to breathe. “He loved you, even. Strange, that you didn’t know.”

Geralt’s chest swells with impossible depth of emotions and in the space of moments he’s on the bed, hovering over the doppler that is and isn’t Jaskier, his hand at its throat, a growl coming steadily from his own. He wants to kill it, he wants to kiss it while it’s still Jaskier, he wants…he doesn’t even know what he wants. 

He wants it to leave before he makes a mistake again. This was just a one time mistake, and he doesn’t trust himself to not make it again, especially if it's telling the truth about Jaskier, about the things he kept in his head that Geralt never knew, that he  _ couldn’t _ know, that he desperately wishes he had. He wants it to stay, to keep this form forever and feed him truths that feel like painful lies. But he has more control than that, or at least more instinct for self-preservation.

“Leave,” Geralt growls, “become someone else, and leave.”

“I gave you what you wanted,” the doppler returns, its voice straining against Geralt’s hand. “So fuck off.”

Geralt turns to look at his sword, sitting feet away on the floor, easily accessible, he’d be able to grab it in seconds. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes follow his gaze. “Become. Someone. Else. And never let me see you again, or I’ll be greeting you with my sword instead of my cock.”

The doppler laughs, but Geralt can see fear behind its eyes, and that’s enough. He backs off, releasing his hand from its throat, climbing off the bed, replacing the remainder of his clothing. He throws the chair away from the door, and after a moment’s thought turns back and pockets the vial of oil, unable to leave it. 

He can hear the doppler shift around in the bed, but Geralt doesn’t look back at it. He doesn’t want to see someone else in the bed where he’s imagined Jaskier, doesn’t want to see the truth even as he knows it, as every bone in his body already knows. 

_ I’m sorry _ , Geralt thinks as he closes the door, as he walks down the stairs, as he leaves the inn and steps into the early morning. 

Jaskier’s scent clings to him, but instead of healing anything, it just splits another crack into his chest. There’s nothing left in this town, not for him, nothing but idle wishes and regret. That’s all Geralt’s become—wishes and regret, and deep buried feeling he wants to choke off but that overwhelm him all the same. 

_ He loved you, even. Strange, that you didn’t know. _

Jaskier had been here, in this town, only weeks before. Geralt nods to himself, and walks back towards the inn he’d graced earlier, where Roach was waiting. 

_ Me, too, Jaskier _ , he thinks, as he saddles Roach, leaning into her familiar warmth. Jaskier couldn’t be more than a few days ride from here, he was never one to turn down a chance to perform, he’d be bound to stop in every town he passed. There were many ways to go, of course, but Geralt was a godsdamn witcher. He’d find the right one.

Geralt rides out of town, the scent of Jaskier filling his senses, and doesn’t look back.  __

_ I’ll find you,  _ he thinks _. Or I’ll never stop looking. _

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just more porn, only this time make it super emotional, everyone has so many feelings.

Jaskier lies still on the bed long after Geralt leaves, trying to piece his scattered thoughts together. 

_ Anything for you, Jaskier. Everything for you. _

It echoes in his mind—enough to open all of the old wounds, to shake him to his core. Jaskier knows better, really he does. He knows that words said during sex are usually lies, and better forgotten than worried, but this is  _ Geralt _ . Geralt, who wouldn’t even admit that they were  _ friends _ . Who thought he was safe with someone that wouldn’t give a fuck what he said, because it wasn’t real. 

There were so many moments when Jaskier thought he would be caught out. He’d met Geralt’s eyes too soon, in the tavern, made his knowledge of the witcher too obvious; he’d cried Geralt’s name too loudly, with too much feeling; he’d let himself sing and talk and moan too much like himself; he’d leaned into Geralt’s touch too easily, too much like he’d thought about it for years; he’d cracked and told Geralt he  _ loved him _ . 

But Geralt had believed what he wanted to believe, through it all. Jaskier shivers, remembering how Geralt had leapt at him after that final admission, like he wanted to kill him, like he wanted to believe him. It would have been so easy then, to tell him the truth, entirely.  _ It’s me _ . 

He hadn’t though. He’d watched Geralt leave, watched Geralt steal his fucking  _ oil _ , the one he knew he always smelled like, and now Jaskier was just supposed to live with that. Somehow, he was supposed to get out of bed and go on with his life as if none of that had happened. 

And yet. Jaskier really wasn’t very good at leaving things well enough alone, even if that would be the smartest move. That’s why he’d followed Geralt in the first place, so many years ago; it’s why he never left, even when it hurt to stay; it’s why he let Geralt follow him last night and fuck him into the mattress. Over and over, Geralt pulled Jaskier into his orbit and Jaskier didn’t fight it, not until that day on the mountain, not until his heart shattered and he couldn’t put it back together without taking his eyes off Geralt for good. And even then, it had only taken one look and he was back where he started, filled with so much longing it physically hurt. 

_ Anything for you, Jaskier. Everything for you _

His little room starts to glow as the sun rises, but Jaskier doesn’t move. He wonders if Geralt is still in town, or if he left already, if he rode away without looking back. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is still thinking about the night before, or if he’s already forgotten, already pushed it aside, over and done with. 

Jaskier lets the memories flood him again. Geralt was so eager, the way he had leaned into Jaskier’s touch, the way he’d touched Jaskier so readily, like he really wanted to, like he  _ needed _ to, like he’d thought about it before; he’d not so much asked for Jaskier as  _ taken _ him, and he’d done it as easily as breathing, and the thought of that kept Jaskier from being able to just move past it. He hadn’t made a mistake by allowing Geralt into his bed, he’d made a mistake by pretending to be something else, as if that would make it easier. 

Jaskier groans and rolls over in the bed, his body protesting at the movement, sore from the tight clutch of Geralt’s fingers, the rough, unrelenting press of Geralt’s cock. Jaskier doesn’t think sleep will come, his mind still racing, chasing the memory of Geralt. He pulls himself up, throwing on clothing, unwilling to bathe away the scent of Geralt, even if he’s vaguely disgusted at himself for it. 

The time passes slowly. Jaskier goes about his day, planning for his departure. He’s been here, in this town, for weeks now, but he doesn’t think he can stay longer, even if he has grown a bit of a local following. The whole appeal of this town was that he’d never come through here with Geralt, his stomach didn’t drop with remembering every corner, but now…now Geralt’s voice echoes in his head, filling every space. Jaskier feels on edge the entire day, looking over his shoulder like Geralt is going to pop up. It’s too much, it’s unsustainable; he has to leave. 

By the time Jaskier gets back to his room, he’s exhausted, his guard is down and his body longs for sleep. He latches the door, and doesn’t have time to even look around before he is roughly grabbed from behind, an arm wrapping around his chest to keep him still. 

Jaskier starts to struggle, stopping when he feels the sharp point of a knife against his back. This is what he gets for staying in the smaller, less populous inn—robbed the night before he leaves. Fucking perfect. 

“Easy there,” Jaskier says, trying to sound self assured and confident, “no one needs to get stabbed. I’ve not a big purse right now, but you can have it, whatever you want you can have just—”

“You were supposed to shift,” the voice behind him says, voice brushing against Jaskier’s ear, soft and angry and recognizable.  _ Geralt _ . 

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, aware of the precarious situation, and yet unable to stop himself from feeling a rush of arousal, of want. Geralt is  _ here _ , Geralt  _ came back _ . Even if he doesn’t know that it’s Jaskier, and—oh. The wanting floods through with guilt.

“I told you,” Geralt says, his voice curled into a growl, “to become someone else. And yet here I find you, still looking like  _ him _ .” 

“Wait, it’s not—,” Jaskier starts, but Geralt cuts him off, pressing his hand against Jaskier’s mouth.

“Do you know what it does to me?” Geralt asks. It sounds like he’s biting back a groan. “To see you still looking like Jaskier, in this room, knowing everything I did to you last night? Knowing everything I still want to do?”

Jaskier knows he has to tell him, before anything else happens. That would be easier if Geralt’s growly anger didn’t make him want to rip off his clothes and throw himself on the bed for Geralt to do what he wants. Jaskier shudders involuntarily, pressing himself back against Geralt with a minute motion of his hips. 

“Fuck it,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier hears the knife drop out of Geralt’s hand onto the floor behind him, and Geralt pulls him back against him more firmly. Now Jaskier can feel the hard press of Geralt’s cock against him, and his own cock starts to fill. Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier’s stomach and starts to unbutton his doublet, the other hand still covering Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier wants nothing more than to let him continue, but Geralt still thinks he’s fucking someone else, and Jaskier knows he won’t be able to live with himself if he lets this happen again. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice muffled against skin, “wait, can we talk about this before you just—”

Geralt presses his clothed cock harder against Jaskier’s clothed ass, continuing to unbutton. “Don’t do that,” he says, and his voice is tinged with emotion that Jaskier doesn’t expect. “Don’t talk to me like you’re him. At least not until I’m fucking you.”

He lowers his hand from Jaskier’s mouth, though, holding it lightly against Jaskier’s collarbone instead, keeping him from moving away. Jaskier whines in spite of himself, and Geralt nips at his ear. The hand on his chest stops carefully undoing buttons and instead grasps at the hem right above the ones already open and  _ pulls _ , ripping Jaskier’s doublet open, buttons raining to the floor. Geralt growls and grips the collar of Jaskier’s shirt, ripping clean through that as well, then presses his hand flat against Jaskier’s bare chest. 

Jaskier wants to be upset about the clothing, except that Geralt is touching him, and it feels amazing, and all he wants is for Geralt to press their bare skin together, all he wants is to feel every part of Geralt again. Except not like this. Jaskier swallows against Geralt’s hand, feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable.

_ “Gods,  _ Geralt, wait. I have to tell you something.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt says quietly, his hand trailing lower on Jaskier’s stomach, “for telling me any of the thoughts in his head. I don’t want to hear any more, it’s…too much.” He presses a kiss against the back of Jaskier’s neck, far too softly. “No, tell me everything.”

_ Anything for you, Jaskier. Everything for you. _

“Geralt, wait. Let me go, you ass _ , _ ” Jaskier says more firmly, and this time Geralt pauses, and lets Jaskier push his way forward out of Geralt’s grip. 

Jaskier spins around, still close to Geralt, and now he can see the utterly wrecked way Geralt is looking at him, his eyes blown out black, his concern only visible in the lines around his eyes and mouth. Looking at Geralt, Jaskier feels his conviction falter. What if it’s just about fucking a surrogate, what if Geralt doesn’t want  _ him _ so much as he just wants someone familiar?

“Why did you come back?” Jaskier asks.

“To make sure you’d listened.” Geralt wets his lips. “Although I admit, I was hoping you hadn’t, hoping for another night.” He runs his eyes appraisingly along Jaskier’s body. 

Jaskier wants to preen under the attention, can’t deny that he likes the way Geralt is looking at him. But it would be foolish to indulge this if it’s only going to end with Geralt leaving again, tossing him aside once he’s had his fill. Still, Jaskier has to force himself not to look at the bulge of Geralt’s cock, not to think about his own straining against his pants. At least, not until they clear this up. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier takes a step closer to him. “It’s me. I’m not a doppler.”

“Fuck off.” Geralt spits, but he looks uncertain. “The real Jaskier would never have let me fuck him like that.” His voice turns bitter. “He probably wouldn’t even look at me, and I’d deserve it.”

“You would,” Jaskier agrees. “But I did. Let you, and look at you, and want you.”

Geralt growls. “Stop lying!” He lunges forward, pushing Jaskier back towards the bed, hard enough to throw off his balance, moving towards him. 

Jaskier stops before he hits the solid endpoint of the bed, diving down to the side of Geralt’s legs and grabbing the knife he’d dropped earlier on the floor. Jaskier holds it up, like a challenge, and Geralt stops short. The silver knife glints in the dim candlelight of the room, dangerous and beautiful. 

“I’m not lying,” Jaskier says, and holds the knife blade against his forearm, tightly enough that blood blooms red around it, spilling from his skin. He loosens his grip and looks up at Geralt, meeting Geralt’s eyes, which are flitting between Jaskier’s eyes and his bloodied arm, his expression carefully controlled. Geralt doesn’t quite look convinced. Jaskier takes a step towards him. “If I was a doppler, could I have done that?”

Geralt reaches out a hand and cups it under Jaskier’s, and Jaskier opens his fist, letting the knife clatter to the ground again. Geralt inspects his arm, looking at it with something akin to wonder. Jaskier wants to kiss him in that moment, badly wants to, wants to feel how Geralt reacts to his touch knowing it’s actually Jaskier doing the touching. But instead he waits. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, his gaze drifting back to Jaskier’s face. 

Jaskier can see the turmoil reflected in Geralt’s eyes as he catches up to himself. Jaskier waits until it settles, until Geralt looks like he believes him, until it looks like Geralt isn’t going to argue or fight him. He waits until Geralt takes another step forward, peering into Jaskier’s eyes, and runs his fingers cautiously down the side of Jaskier’s face, from his temple to his chin. 

“Yes.” Jaskier lets the affirmation fall quietly from his lips, allowing himself to lean into Geralt’s touch. It’s softer than he expects—he would have thought Geralt would be angrier about the subterfuge, not quietly wondrous, and the reality of the moment sends his whole body tingling. 

Geralt’s hand strokes down Jaskier’s neck and onto his bare chest. Jaskier bites back a moan, trying to regulate his breathing. He still isn’t certain that Geralt isn’t going to yell at him and storm off. 

“It was you? Last night?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier nods. “You let me…? And everything you said was…”

“ _ Geralt _ ,” Jaskier says, and it almost does come out as a moan. Geralt isn’t getting angry, or leaving—he’s still here with his hand sliding lower across Jaskier’s stomach, with his pupils blown out and his voice soft. Jaskier feels like he’s being held together with strings of hope. Geralt is still looking at him, waiting, so Jaskier swallows and says quietly, “Everything I said was true.” 

“Fuck.” Geralt shudders, actually shudders, his eyes closing and his whole body trembling. Jaskier feels powerful, and at Geralt’s mercy, like he doesn’t know what to say and like he could say anything and it still wouldn’t ruin this, not now that they’re both being honest. It feels amazing and terrifying, and Jaskier reaches out and pulls Geralt to him, pressing his chest against the leather on Geralt’s and leaning the short distance up to crush their lips together. 

Jaskier would have said he could die happily after kissing Geralt the night before, but this is different, and infinitely better—both of them know what they’re doing, both of them know that the desire is mutual. It feels like all of the thoughts that Jaskier has had for the last year—for the last twenty years, if he’s honest—are being pressed from his lips to Geralt’s, and Geralt is meeting him with equal force.

It’s Geralt who pulls away, too quickly, and Jaskier gasps with the loss. Geralt starts removing his armor, layer by layer peeling away. “Don’t move,” he says quietly, and goes over to his pack, pulling out a tiny jar of salve and opening it. He smooths some over the cut on Jaskier’s arm; Jaskier had nearly forgotten about it, but he sighs as he feels the salve wipe away the stinging background pain. 

Geralt drops his shirt and pushes Jaskier’s shirt and doublet off his shoulders, letting them all pool on the floor. Jaskier figures that since his clothing is ripped to hell anyway, he can’t really complain about it not being put nicely aside. Besides, Geralt is pressing their bodies together again, his tongue ardently exploring Jaskier’s mouth, and nothing else matters. Geralt backs Jaskier up until the back of his knees hit the bed, and moves his ministrations to Jaskier’s neck as he starts to unlace both of their trousers.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt breathes into Jaskier’s ear as he gets the laces untied. 

“I know,” Jaskier says, his voice breaking. 

Geralt seems to sense the emotion threatening to overwhelm Jaskier, and he kisses it away, kisses Jaskier until his head is spinning and his eyes are starry and the hole in his chest is starting to heal. Jaskier digs his fingers into the skin of Geralt’s hips, holding on for dear life.

After a moment, Geralt moves his mouth to the spot on Jaskier’s neck just under his ear, trading rough sucking with soft presses of his lips. He breaks away again to strip off Jaskier’s boots and pants, followed by his own. Jaskier wants to take the time to really look this time, to admire Geralt while he’s bared like this, just for Jaskier, not in hidden glances but full on; he wants to, but Geralt is surging towards him again, and the hot press of Geralt’s cock against his own, of Geralt’s tongue and teeth and hands is impossible to deny.

Large, powerful hands wrap around Jaskier’s hips and lift him into the middle of the bed, and then Geralt is crawling over him, lining up their bodies. Jaskier reaches down and wraps his hand around Geralt’s gorgeous cock, stroking it languidly against his stomach. Jaskier never wants Geralt to stop kissing him.

“I kept looking for you,” Geralt says, sounding thoroughly wrecked. “I  _ missed  _ you.”

Jaskier moans. “Fuck, Geralt, you can’t just say things like that.” 

He swipes his fingers across the head of Geralt’s cock, wet with precome. Jaskier would really like to get Geralt’s cock in his mouth, but he can’t stand the idea of moving out of their current position, with so much skin touching—there will be time later for everything else, he fervently hopes.

“Let me fuck you again,” Geralt says raggedly, “properly.”

Jaskier nods, his voice stolen by the intensity of Geralt’s eyes focused wholly on him. He feels bare and exposed and he gives into the feelings, hoping that Geralt will catch him if he stops holding back. Geralt pulls away, and Jaskier whines as Geralt moves away from his reach, but Geralt is only leaning to the floor where his trousers lie and digging into a pocket, pulling out the small vial of Jaskier’s oil. Jaskier feels a giddy bubbling sensation in his stomach at the knowledge that Geralt was keeping Jaskier’s scent on him.

There’s something soft about it this time, in the way that Geralt inhales with his eyes closed as he opens the vial, breathing in the scent of it; in the way Jaskier can look into Geralt’s eyes as he braces himself above Jaskier and presses an oiled finger against Jaskier’s skin, still sore from the last time. 

“Tell me, did the last time somehow not count as properly?” Jaskier asks petulantly, moaning as Geralt pushes a finger into him. 

“No.” Geralt moves his finger experimentally, watching Jaskier’s face intently, running his other hand over every bit of Jaskier’s skin he can reach. “I mean so I can see your face.”

It’s so much, hearing Geralt say things like that—Geralt, who speaks so sparingly, who never wastes his words—while Jaskier’s laid out like this. Geralt presses in a second finger, moving them with more purpose, and Jaskier cries out, fisting his hands in the blanket on the bed. 

The last time—the first time—it had been rushed and forceful and almost impersonal, and this time it’s so much more _ ,  _ there’s so much focus, so much deliberation in Geralt’s movements. It’s overwhelming, knowing that Geralt  _ missed him,  _ that Geralt wanted this for real, that he  _ came back _ for Jaskier, even if he thought he was just coming back for a pale imitation. 

“You look beautiful,” Geralt says, and this time there’s a sort of awe underlying his voice, and it shakes Jaskier to his core.

“Fuck, you are going to absolutely ruin me,” Jaskier moans. 

Geralt leans forward to kiss him, rough and wet and passionate, and it changes the angle of his fingers and Jaskier can’t help but press his hips up, seeking contact. Geralt smiles against his lips, and straightens up again, leaving Jaskier with his lips swollen and needy. Geralt takes up the little vial of oil again, and Jaskier can feel it drip onto his skin as Geralt redoubles his efforts to open Jaskier up. 

Geralt takes his time, his free hand stroking patterns across the skin of Jaskier’s stomach and chest and thighs. Jaskier watches as sweat begins to bead on Geralt’s skin, his cock standing proudly and enticingly above Jaskier and his face filled with concentration. Jaskier wants to write sonnets devoted to Geralt’s fingering, to his body, to his lips and his eyes and his cock, to every bitten off groan that drops from his lips when Jaskier moves. 

It’s not long before Geralt finds the right spot inside of Jaskier, and Jaskier keens, his body quaking with pleasure. He cries out Geralt’s name, praising him, and Geralt  _ lets him _ , and keeps stroking Jaskier’s prostate with confident, strong fingers. 

Soon Jaskier has been reduced to a shaky, sweaty, overjoyed mess and finally Geralt removes his fingers and slicks up his cock. He meets Jaskier’s eyes, his own eyes dark with arousal, only a thin band of gold around his pupils. Geralt teases his cock against Jaskier’s skin, and Jaskier’s breath hitches. 

“I want to give you everything,” Geralt says in a gruff whisper as he slowly presses his cock into Jaskier.

“I want to let you,” Jaskier replies, letting himself relax beneath Geralt, using his legs against Geralt’s thighs to tug him forward. Geralt keeps looking into Jaskier’s eyes, breathing deeply, and then thrusts forward as though unable to stop himself, groaning as he bottoms out. He lowers himself over Jaskier, and every place their skin touches burns through Jaskier like fire.

Geralt stays still for a moment, just breathing, as overwhelmed as Jaskier. The air smells like Jaskier’s oil and sweat and sex and Geralt. Jaskier wants to live in this moment, where he doesn’t need to focus on anything except the weight of Geralt’s body above him, and the feeling of Geralt’s cock in him, and the way Geralt gazes at him like he’s something precious.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier whispers, canting his hips up towards Geralt. 

Geralt growls and Jaskier moans, wrapping his legs around Geralt’s waist as Geralt starts to thrust into him, gripping his hips. Jaskier cries out with Geralt’s name on his lips, and Geralt pushes their mouths together in a searing kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. Jaskier loses himself in the movement of their lips and bodies. Impulsively, he twists his fingers through Geralt’s hair and pulls, and Jaskier’s cock twitches desperately between them when it causes Geralt to moan outright. 

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, words escaping him as Geralt’s thrusts get more uneven and frantic. 

Geralt makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan and presses his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, sucking a bruise there and covering it with kisses as he fucks Jaskier into the mattress. He moves a hand between their bodies, taking Jaskier’s cock and stroking it at the same relentless pace he’s set with his thrusting.

Jaskier presses himself off the bed, meeting Geralt’s thrusts with his own, fucking Geralt’s hand as it strips across his cock. He can feel his muscles tightening, and he fights it, anxious for this not to end. Jaskier squeezes his eyes closed in concentration until he can’t bear not to look at Geralt, panting and moaning because of  _ Jaskier _ . 

“Let me watch you cum,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s ear, and then pulls back so he can see Jaskier’s face. It’s enough to send Jaskier careening over the edge, crying out as he comes hard between them, his spend painting their stomachs. Geralt’s eyes glaze with arousal and he presses into Jaskier with a few more uncoordinated thrusts before groaning and collapsing across Jaskier as he comes inside of him, crying out Jaskier’s name. 

They lie still, breathing heavily and covered in a combination of sweat and oil and cum. Jaskier feels lightheaded, and he wants nothing more than to curl up against Geralt now and close his eyes, letting the pleasant post-orgasm high carry him away.

Geralt pulls away, slipping out of Jaskier, and it’s so reminiscent of the night before that Jaskier feels an intense flood of panic that Geralt is about to leave. Geralt doesn’t, though, he just rolls onto his back, pulling Jaskier against him, and grasps Jaskier’s hand, turning it to look at the wound, nearly closed from the potent salve. 

“Really you?” Geralt asks, meeting Jaskier’s eyes. 

Jaskier nods. “I’m really me.” 

“Good.” Geralt nods his head and lifts Jaskier’s palm to his mouth, pressing kisses across it. There’s a tenderness to the motion that steals Jaskier’s breath, even after they’ve fucked twice. He still looks hesitant, and Jaskier wonders what he can do to coax the words from Geralt. Jaskier curls himself against Geralt’s chest, instead of talking, running his hands gently over Geralt’s cooling skin as Geralt wraps an arm around him to stroke his back. He’s nearly asleep when Geralt speaks again.

“Last night,” Geralt says, and Jaskier looks up at him. “You meant  _ everything _ ?”

Jaskier considers. Lying here, in Geralt’s arms, it’s hard to imagine feeling anything besides this comfortable, bright happiness, but there’s still a part of Jaskier that wants to protect himself. He takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

Geralt’s voice when he replies is quiet, barely a whisper. “Come with me?”

He’s still meeting Jaskier’s eyes, and there’s none of the shielding distance Jaskier is used to seeing. He wants to say yes, gods does he want to, but there’s a big difference between sex and tying his entire life to Geralt again. He needs something else, something more. “Why?”

Geralt hums, his other hand running through Jaskier’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Let me show you how much I missed you, how much I…need you.”

He presses a kiss against Jaskier’s forehead, and Jaskier swells with pleasure at the words, things he never thought he’d hear, things he still can’t quite believe he’s hearing, even with the reminder in his sore muscles, in the sticky fluids drying on his skin. “All right,” he murmurs against Geralt’s skin. 

“Good, I’m…glad. We’ll leave tomorrow, then.” Geralt is smiling, the soft little smile that Jaskier has rarely seen, the one that crinkles around his eyes, the one that means something close to happiness. 

It’s so strange, so normal and yet completely new. Jaskier has spent almost as much of his life with Geralt as he has without him, and he realizes abruptly that this is the first time Geralt has actually requested his presence, the first time he hasn’t bemoaned the trouble of traveling with Jaskier, even if Jaskier suspected it was sometimes just teasing. It feels good, almost as good as the feeling of Geralt’s arms around him, as the tickling sensation of sweat cooling on his skin. 

_ Gods, I still love you,  _ Jaskier thinks, but he can’t give that away yet, in the present tense, not until it’s been longer than 24 hours that they’ve been in each other’s lives again. “I’m glad you found me,” he says, instead. He’ll say the rest later. 

“I wouldn’t have stopped looking until I had,” Geralt says, and he sounds like he’s falling asleep, his words slow and soft—hell, he sounds  _ comfortable.  _ “I would never have stopped looking for you.”

It’s not exactly a declaration of love, not nearly as outright one as Jaskier had made the night before, at least. But this is Geralt, and lying there with their skin pressed together, knowing this isn’t the only night—not by a long shot, if Jaskier has anything to say about it—it’s enough. 


End file.
